


Blood of the Beast

by dietcoke0202



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Gen, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietcoke0202/pseuds/dietcoke0202
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greyback wasn't always a mad dog and not all wolves are like him. Little is known about him, but his name is feared among wolves and wizards alike.  This is ultimately Fenrir Greyback’s backstory but it goes further than that to explore how the world looked to werewolves through the Three Great Wizarding Wars and the reign of two Dark Lords told by the wolves who knew Greyback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood of the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> I always found the werewolf culture of Harry Potter fascinating and largely unexplored. This is ultimately Fenrir Greyback’s backstory but it goes further than that to explore how the world looked to werewolves through the Three Great Wizarding Wars and the reign of two Dark Lords.

It is said the deepest level of hell is not aflame. Dante wrote of sinners encased in thick layers of ice, frozen for eternity in their agony. According to him Lucifer’s throne is made of ice and from it seeps a cold so deep no fire could ever warm it. As Rafe’s teeth clacked together, rattling in his jaw, loosened by poor nutrition and the beating he received from the guards, he knew it to be true. Hell was a cold place.

Rafe curled his body up against the frozen stone wall of his cell. The perpetual salty North Sea mist which permeated the grey-black stone clung to his skin and clothes making them stiff with frost. At night the walls creaked and groaned as ice shifted stone in the frigid air. He drew his legs as close to his chest as he could manage. His feet were a lost cause. They would likely never recover from the cold but he could hardly bring himself to care about his toes. He could hardly bring himself to care about anything anymore.

The other prisoners screams used to set his teeth on edge. The high pitched wails bounced off walls and low ceiling making it impossible to identify their source. After six years, the echoes were just as much a part of the perpetual white noise of Azkaban fortress as the grind of stone.

Huddled on the floor Rafe tried to remember his past. It was all any of the prisoners ever did. The temperature dropped impossibly further when a shadow passed in front of his cell door. It was a dementer. It had to be because suddenly his happy thoughts and warm memories began slipping from his mind like sand through an hourglass. The harder he tried to grasp them the faster they fled. He shivered again and was once more submerged in his past.

Yes, the center of hell was cold. It was icy and devoid of warmth or feeling. The center of hell was the worst of all possible punishments. Rafe had read Dante. He knew he deserved this.

The center of hell was for traitors.


End file.
